Mage of Clouds (The Cloudmages #2) (35 page)

“Sevei . . .” Meriel said, but Sevei shook her head.

“No, don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say. Nothing to change it. You wanted to know what I saw in the cards. Well, I saw that I am tied to you. Mam said that I was destined to help someone who would be important—I would think that a Banrion’s daughter is important enough, eh? You’ve escaped. I’ll grant you that. I couldn’t reach you before you were in the water. But this isn’t the time or the place, Meriel. I don’t want you to die out there—and I think that’s what will happen if you leave now. I want you to come back with me now. Come with me and I promise you that when the right moment comes, I’ll help you escape. I’ve made you this promise before and I’m making it again: until then, I’ll make sure you’re safe, no matter what.”

Sevei rose to her feet and Meriel took a long backward step into the water. A wave lapped at her calf and she felt mud squelch beneath her bare foot as the bottom dropped sharply away. The water was dark and frigid, and strange ripples erupted on the surface of the lough not far from shore as if something swam out there. She could feel the change starting within her and all she had to do was let it happen—dive in as she was and emerge a few seconds later as a Saimhóir. But she held back the transformation. “Why should you care?” she shouted back to Sevei. “You’re just trying to trick me.”

“No.” The denial came simple and sad; in the twilight, Meriel could see her lips press together in a frown. “But I can’t prove it to you. You need to believe me, on your own.”

“How can I believe it? Why would you be willing to betray Nico and your clan for me?”

Sevei spread her hands wide. “You just have to trust that it’s true, Meriel. You have to feel your choice inside and know it’s the right one. My mam knew that feeling; I know it, too. If you can’t do that, I’ll understand. But I’m going to walk toward you now . . .”

She took a step and Meriel retreated into the water, standing knee-deep in the lapping, cold waves. The desire to change swept over her again and she shivered in response. She turned her back to Sevei. The ripples were gone now, as if whatever was out there had gone still, waiting for her to make a decision. Meriel took a long, slow deep breath. She could smell the peaty fragrance of the lough. The water was beginning to feel nearly warm around her legs.

She could hear Sevei’s slow, deliberate steps behind her.

Gentle arms went around her from behind, hugging her. A sweet, warm breath touched her hair, whispering in her ear. “Come back with me? For a little while?”

Meriel leaned back into the embrace. She was crying now, unable to keep the tears back and yet not knowing exactly why they came. A few drops splashed from her cheek into the lough. “I escaped,” she said. “I did. You have to remember that.”

“Aye, I will,” Sevei said. “You’ll be free again as soon as the right moment comes. I promise.”

T
HE QUESTION didn’t seem to be
if
he would die. Rather, it was only matter of what would kill him first.

Owaine sneezed violently and loudly.

The rain was persistent and thorough, finding every crack in the skins and clothing Cataigh had given him. Owaine was shivering and ill from the cold before he’d walked more than a few miles, and he could visualize himself being found weeks later lying stiff just off the road, dead of a fever. He blinked away the thought with the rain and kept walking. If his fate was to die of this rain-begotten sickness, there was nothing he could do about it now.

Owaine’s feet were sore, his legs tired. The squirrel Léimard was still with him; at least he thought it was the same squirrel that scampered through the branches of the trees lining the road. So far, the squirrel had been no help at all; he wished that Cataigh had given him a horse instead—that would have been far more useful. Owaine thought about how nice it would be to let a horse do the walking while he snuggled himself in a blanket on its back, and how quickly he’d cover the miles. But he had little money in his purse, just about enough to buy a tankard of ale. Enough to pay for a night’s stabling, but not the horse itself. No one was going to lend a stranger a mount, especially someone as bedraggled looking as he, with the accent of Inish Thuaidh in his voice.

If he wanted a horse, he would have to take it.

A stripe or so later, the squirrel chittered and bounded down onto his shoulder, startling him. Then it ran down his arm, leaping away and bouncing off down the road before turning abruptly into the underbrush alongside. “Where . . .” he started to say, then he heard the sound of hooves from around a bend in the road. They grew louder, then abruptly stopped. A few breaths later, there was the sound of wood crashing against wood. Owaine went forward several steps until he could see around the curve. He could make out a building at a crossroads not far ahead. Squinting, he thought he could see a signboard mounted above the door: probably an inn, then, though he was too far away for his nearsighted eyes to make out either picture or words there. A horse was hitched to the rail in front of the building, with the green-and-gold colors of Infochla draped over the back of its brown flanks: a Riocha’s horse, well-cared for and strong. Léimard leaped out from the underbrush onto the road in front of him, scampering to the building and springing up on the railing where the horse’s reins were looped. The horse snorted and pulled back. Owaine blinked.

A knot was beginning to form in his stomach, but with it was a new resolve. He waited to see if a servant would come from the inn to take care of the horse or if the tiarna would come back out himself. Neither happened. The inn’s door remained firmly closed. If he could reach the inn without being noticed . . . He remembered the slow magic incantation that muffled sounds, but it would take a quarter-stripe to prepare—there wasn’t time for that.

The longer you wait, the more likely it is the tiarna comes back out.
Owaine took a breath and hurried forward as quietly as he could.

Léimard had jumped down from the railing and vanished. Owaine didn’t care—he’d happily trade the squirrel for a horse. The horse nickered, turning its head toward Owaine as he approached and moving nervously away to the limit of its reins. Owaine patted its flanks; muscles flexed underneath and shook raindrops from its hide, but the animal made no other sign of nervousness. The horse was a gelding and looked gentle enough, though Owaine’s knowledge of the animals was limited to the few lethargic and spoiled horses in the Order’s stables.

Owaine watched his own hands unknot the reins from the post near the door as if he were seeing someone else performing the task—it didn’t seem possible that he could be stealing a horse. The worst theft he’d ever committed in his life was snatching a few extra slices of bread from the Order’s kitchens and now here he was taking a tiarna’s mount, a tiarna who would certainly kill him without asking any questions if he happened to come out the door now or glance through the slats of the inn’s shutters. From within the darkness of the inn, he heard a woman’s voice and then a man’s, then an unmistakable groaning sigh of arousal.

Owaine blushed. His hands shook as he took the reins. He forced back the sneeze that threatened to reveal his presence.

“Shh, softly now,” he whispered to the horse as if the animal could understand him. He pulled himself up on the straps of the soaked livery and dug his heels into the horse’s side as he’d seen others do, then nearly fell off as the beast wheeled and started to canter away. The sound of its hooves on the sloppy ground seemed impossibly loud. Owaine hung on, waiting for the shout from behind and perhaps an arrowhead slicing into his unprotected back to tear the life from him. The rain drummed at his face and body as the horse began to trot away. He didn’t begin to relax until the inn had vanished behind a screen of trees. As soon as he dared, he stopped and tore away the banner of Infochla from the horse, burying it under rocks well away from the road—people might wonder how a bedraggled traveler managed to afford a fine horse, but at least they wouldn’t see immediate evidence of the theft.

The tiarna had also left his pack on the horse. In it, Owaine found a boot knife, a roll of hard bread wrapped in cloth with a brick of yellow cheese, a small purse with two gold mórceints and several smaller coins, and a pouch of papers. He riffled through the papers; they were all addressed to the Rí Infochla in Falcarragh and appeared to be from the court of the Rí Connachta in Keelballi. The tiarna, then, must be a courier, perhaps one who came this way frequently enough to stop at the inn regularly for a liaison. By now, the man must be regretting his decision to soothe his baser instincts.

Léimard scolded him from a nearby branch, then jumped down to land on the horse’s back just in front of Owaine. The horse half-reared nervously, nearly sending Owaine off it again. Léimard was unperturbed, sitting up on its haunches, and Owaine broke off a piece of the loaf and held it out to the squirrel, who took it in its paws and began chewing contentedly.

“They’ll hang me for a common thief,” Owaine muttered to Léimard as he tossed the pouch of papers into the deep brush alongside the trail and gnawed at the bread himself. “Taking the man’s horse and his money, and destroying the correspondence of the Rí ...”

Léimard didn’t answer, absorbed in his meal.

By midafternoon, Owaine decided that simply riding a horse might kill him before the rain and cold. His back ached, his buttocks had long ago gone numb, and his legs screamed with the effort of holding to the gelding’s sides. The only advantage was that he was covering the miles more quickly now, and it was the horse’s hooves and not his boots that were thick with mud. Even Léimard seemed content to let the horse do the work.

As the day began to fade, they came upon a village. Owaine sent a tendril of energy out from his clochmion, searching for Meriel, but there was no answering resonance—she wasn’t here. He decided he would ride straight through, not wanting to face the questions that would come if he stopped. But Léimard hopped off the horse and away. “Léimard!” he called, but the squirrel ran toward the ramshackle stone cottages at the edge of the settlement and vanished into the blur that was the village. As Owaine squinted into the dusk, the thought of a night alone and unprotected on the road seemed suddenly far more dangerous than a night here. The tiarna hadn’t come from this direction; the horse wouldn’t be recognized and with the tiarna’s purse, he had money enough. Two villagers nodded to him as he passed the open gate of the town, and their gazes were merely curious, not suspicious. The inn beckoned, with yellow light already flickering beyond its shutters. He pulled up the horse and dismounted with a groan and a cough. He looked around for Léimard, didn’t see the animal, and shrugged. He went in.

Owaine nodded to the proprietor—a skinny man behind a table placed over two barrels—as well as the local couples huddled near the peat fire drinking and smoking pipe weed, and placed a copper on the planks. “Stout,” he said. “And can you tell me what village this might be?”

The man grunted, snatched a wooden mug from a grimy shelf behind him, and opened the tap in the bung-hole of one of the barrels. Dark foam dribbled out. “You’re in Ballycraigh, may the Mother help you,” he said finally. “And where would you be from? There was an Inishlander who came through here once. He had an accent like yours.” He glanced up and down Owaine’s length as he placed the mug on the table. “You’re not dressed like fisherfolk, though.” Owaine could plainly hear the unspoken:
you’re not dressed like
anyone
from around here . . .

“I’m from—” Owaine paused momentarily. “—the Stepping Stones, one of the south islands, not those traitorous northers. Still, we sound a little like the Inish sometimes, being so close to the island. I’m on my way to Falcarragh.” The last half of the sentence was a rush of words followed by a sneeze. Owaine wiped his nose on his sleeve and sniffed loudly.

“Strange that someone from the Stones would be riding to Falcarragh rather than sailing.”

“Believe me,” Owaine answered heartily, “the way my backside feels, I
wish
I’d sailed.” The proprietor chuckled at that, though he still stared at Owaine curiously. Owaine blinked and sneezed again. “You wouldn’t have anyone here who’s good with potions, would you? I’ve caught a chill from the damp.”

“You might call on Ald Macsnei; she’s a good eye for the herbs,” the man told him. “Too bad you weren’t here a few days back; there was a young woman with the Healing Touch traveling with the Taisteal. Had an accent more like yours than the Taisteal, though, so perhaps she was from the Stones, too. She healed Widow Martain’s daughter Áine of the Bloody Cough, she did. Did it in an instant, just laying hands on her. Better than a bloody cloudmage.”

Owaine remembered the wheel marks he’d seen at the campsite near the ocean:
the Taisteal would have their wagons, and the Bunús Muintir had said something about Meriel having a cloch
... He had the feeling that he knew now why Léimard had made him stop here. If he’d followed his own instincts . . . “The woman had an accent like mine, you say?”

“Aye. And hair red enough that it flamed like a sunset, Widow Martain said, though others who went to her the next day said the woman’s hair was raven black. A young one to have the Healing Touch, if you ask me, though the Taisteal said it was in her family.”

Owaine frowned. He had no idea why Meriel would be traveling with a Taisteal clan, or why she’d be pretending to possess a “healing touch,” or why she might dye her hair black. None of it made any sense. Meriel should be with Thady and the tiarna who had taken her, yet . . .